A Drowning
by LaVioleBlanche
Summary: In the wake of Andrew's realization, he comes to understand that he's not alone- that he has something to live for, and someone to save. Spoilers and slash! M/M
1. The Outsider

I blame my friend for this... she finally got me to watch Shutter Island, and of course it rekindled my Jackie Earle-Haley fetish, and Jackie's character burrowed his way into my brain... And I blame DamionStarr for writing AWESOME Shutter Island fic and inspiring me to try this.

Characters belong to Dennis Lehane, or Martin Scorsese, since it's movie-verse.

Help me if you can

It's just that this

Is not the way I'm wired so could you please

Help me understand

Why you're giving into all these

Reckless dark desires

You're lying to yourself again

Suicidal imbecile

Think about it

Put it on a faultline

What will it take to get

Through to you precious

Why would I

Why would I wanna watch you

Disconnect and self-destruct

One bullet at a time

What's your rush now

Everyone will

Have his day to die

~The Outsider, A Perfect Circle

~.~

The man who was Teddy Daniels marches sullenly down the corridor of Ward C, casting irritated glances up at the guards that flank either side of him. At first he tried appealing to their sense of decency, and when that didn't work he opted for insulting them to their faces, which hasn't earned him anything beyond an angry shove or two.

He shakes his head, feeling the sedatives retreat from his mind. Nothing permanent, of course- no lobotomy for him. Damn Chuck for blabbing to Cawley and damn Cawley's bleeding heart. If Andrew wants a lobotomy he'll have a goddamn lobotomy.

_3 Days ago~_

_"You're not insane, Andrew," Cawley says, looking sympathetic, watching the ex-Marshall being led from the lighthouse after calling halt to the operation- in spite of protests from both Andrew and McPherson. "You've broken through the wall of your tragedy; now you have only to repair the damage."_

One of the guards gives him another shove, directing him down the hall to his left. Long lines of cold stone walls, punctuated by the dark doorways of cells, bring to mind the dark streets of some unnamed city or ghost town. Only the steady drip of water and the occasional cry or moan from a patient echoes through the silence. Finally, they halt at the door to one of the cells- the one that, at first glance, appears to be empty.

_"You've got to go back," the doctor tells him with a kind, this-is-for-your-own-good smile. "You've confronted what your wife did. You've started to face what you've done in the real world. You have to reconcile what you've done in here. It will help you to heal; help you to move on." He places a hand on his patient's shoulder, reassuring like a good psychiatrist. "Don't worry. The orderlies will be just down the hall in case something happens."_

_"You mean in case he attacks me?"_

_"He won't attack you, I'm sure." Something about Cawley's tone makes Laeddis turn to look at him._

_"You mean in case _I _attack _him _again."_

One of the guards fumbles with they keys, the jangling sound setting off the inmates to the left and right of the cell. Their howling peters out when the other guard slams the bars of their doors with his nightstick. The first guard gets the door open, enters the cell to check its occupant.

"Jesus, Merle, he's been chewin' the jacket again," he calls over his shoulder to his associate in a heavy Southern twang. "Cut that out, ya dumb bastard!" There's a low thump, not unlike a shoe striking someone's side, followed by a bout of coughing and what might be a series of curses.

"Everything okay in there?" Merle calls in a bored tone, and the first guard replies that yeah, everything's fine, go ahead and send 'im in.

Merle gives Andrew a firm push and he takes the hint, stepping forward into the gloom of the small chamber, switching places with the guard as he steps out. The door swings shut and the two wardens begin their retreat to the end of the hall, leaving the prisoners.

Andrew turns apprehensively toward the vague shadow slouched in the far corner of the cell. The figure coughs once more, wet and hacking, before speaking.

"Ted, Ted, Teddy Ted Ted." His voice is like rusted nails over concrete.

"Don't call me that," Andrew says automatically.

"Well jeez, man, what the hell should I call you? Just pick whatever name pops into my head?"

"Andrew," he replies, still warily eyeing the darkness. "Call me Andrew."

"Nahh. I don't think I can call you that, Gallahad. Last time I called you that some jackass beat the crap outta me."

"I know, that's why I'm here-"

"Why are you here, Imhotep?" The figure shuffles but doesn't stand. "You're not crazy anymore; you're not like us. So when're they puttin' you on that ferry?"

"I dunno," Andrew shrugs, irritation creeping into his tone. "Soon, I guess."

"Soon, huh?" The prisoner coughs again- or maybe it's a laugh. "Well, I'm real happy for you, Sherlock."

"The hell is that supposed to mean?" It occurs to Laeddis that this conversation probably isn't going the way Cawley had intended, but he doesn't care.

"What do you think I mean, Zatuichi? You really think they're gonna just let you waltz back into society?" Another sound, and this time it's definitely a laugh. "You're a riot, man. You crack me up."

"You think I'm joking?" Irritation gives way to anger.

"Course you are. You're great at jokes." The harsh laughter twists his words into bitter amusement. "Remember that time- those times- you told me you were gonna get me outta here? _Great_ joke. Fuckin' _hilarious_. You're a stand-up."

Guilt bites at the edges of anger. "Noyce-"

"Twitch," the voice grates. "You used to call me Twitches."

"Can't imagine why," Andrew mutters dryly.

"See? You're a crack-up. You don't remember? It was a good nickname; even the orderlies started callin' me Twitch."

"No," Laeddis closes his eyes, trying to recall, wondering if it actually happened. "I don't remember."

"That's a shame," Noyce sighs, falling silent.

The cell is quiet for a long moment, George's ragged breathing filling the emptiness. Andrew takes a step forward. "What did you mean? You don't think they'll let me leave?"

There's no response.

"Hey." Another step, bringing the hunched shape into sharper focus- still in darkness, but recognizable, curled in on itself. "I'm talkin' to you, Noyce."

The smaller man shifts but the silence continues.

"Noyce." Andrew bends down, aggravated but cautious. "George!" He reaches out and grabs hold of the inmate's shoulder, yanks him into the watery light-

-and immediately withdraws his hand as Noyce's appearance registers.

His face is still a patchwork of bruises- no surprise there, but some of them look suspiciously fresh, and there's a gash over one eyebrow that definitely wasn't there before. It's his body, however, that causes Andrew to recoil: Noyce's arms are contorted around his torso, bound in a straitjacket. The elbows of it are scraped bare, raw-rubbed skin showing through. It's obvious that the schizophrenic man has been biting through the sleeves like a fox in a snare; the cloth is shredded and bloody- proof that he hasn't been discriminating about using his teeth. His mouth is still red-stained, bits of thread and skin caught between his canines, which are bared in a pained snarl.

"Jesus," Andrew falls back onto the floor, pushing himself away.

Noyce snorts in derisive mirth, dried blood flaking from his crooked nose. "Yeah," he rasps, "That's about the reaction I was expecting."

"Jesus," Laeddis says again, for lack of a better response.

"Sorry, pal, he ain't here. Try the guy three cells down; he thinks he one of the Apostles. I forget which one."

"Noyce," the taller man shuffles forward once more, brows furrowed with concern and contrition. "You have to go to the medical wing. That shit will get infected. I'll-" He starts to stand. "I'll call the guard."

"Like hell!" The injured man snaps, scrambling back until he's pressed against the wall again. "You know what they do to people there, Leo?" His eyes shine out of the deep caverns of their sockets, a trapped, wild animal look. "You know what they do? Cut your head open and scoop the brains out and replace 'em with cotton and cobwebs and cut open your chest and put their little radios and microphones in-"

"Okay. Okay!" Andrew holds up both palms placatingly, slowly sitting back down. "Okay. I won't call the guard."

The schizophrenic shakes his head. "Not like they'd listen to you anyway."

"Why not? I thought I wasn't crazy anymore."

He cocks his head, shoulders still hunched defensively. "You're still _here_. If you're still here, you're still a patient. If you're still a patient, you're still crazy."

"It's scary that I understand you better than I understand the fuckin' doctors." Andrew almost smiles, exasperated and exhausted.

"Like I said," Noyce replies, and maybe it's a trick of the light but for a second- just a second- it looks like his blood-crusted lips twitch up at the corners. "Crazy. So why're you here, Crazy?"

"Oh." Laeddis drops his gaze, amusement fading. "Part of my 'rehab', I s'pose. Cawley wants me to... what'd he say... 'reconcile what I've done'. Apparently that involves talkin' to you."

George's eyes flick up, catching Andrew's, who notices for the first time just how shockingly blue they are. "I figured they were gonna take you to the lighthouse, give you the brain stab."

The taller man nods, looking away. "They were supposed to," he says bitterly. "But..."

"Cawley got cold feet? Or maybe he just realized you were playin' him."

Shrug. "Both, I guess."

The injured man pauses suddenly, sharp gaze snapping toward the door. "You hear that?" The terrible intensity in his voice makes the other patient turn and look, in spite of the fact that he can't hear anything.

"No..."

George's eyes stay locked on the bars for a long beat until Laeddis, concern rising, leans forward and raises a hand. "Hey."

Noyce's attention flicks back to him. "You don't hear it."

"No." He almost asks what 'it' is, but has a feeling that he doesn't want to know.

The jacket-bound man tilts back, squeezing himself into the corner once more, his eyes shuttered. "Huh."

Andrew watches him shrink, withdrawing from invisible monsters and sounds and god knows what, and after a moment he half-stands, shuffles across the space between them and crouches down next to him. The schizophrenic jumps slightly when their shoulders brush, turning to stare at the larger man. Cautiously, almost mechanically, the man who was Teddy Daniels brings his arm up and lets it rest around Noyce's shoulders.

The painfully thin man freezes instantly, his eyes still wide and locked onto Andrew's face. "The hell're you doin', Dom?"

"Reconciling."

George scoffs but doesn't move- though it's hard to say whether it's because he doesn't want to or because the jacket won't allow him. _Or_, Laeddis thinks, _because he's afraid of what I might do if he pulls away_.

"S'okay," he says quietly.

Noyce's wiry arms shift under his bloodstained sleeves, his knees slowly lowering. Andrew sighs tiredly and lets his head fall back against the cool stone of the wall. After a few quiet minutes, he feels the smaller man move, opens his eyes to see him biting determinedly at his sleeve, further shredding the flesh.

"Quit that," the ex-Marshall says, swatting at his companion's shoulder, careful not to hit any of his injuries. Surprisingly, Noyce stops, and Andrew feels him release a heavy breath.

"Thanks..." The lunatic's eyelids droop, and within minutes his head drops onto Laeddis' shoulder, his raspy breathing evening out.

"Y'know, I thought you said they were gonna take _you_ to the lighthouse," Andrew comments in an offhand manner, trying to keep himself from relaxing too much in spite of how good it feels just to be holding another human being, just to feel another person's breath on his neck and know they're alive.

George nods against him. "Yeah," he responds sleepily, "They're takin' me tomorrow."

~.~

Please R&R and let me know any opinions, comments, etc!


	2. Sound Of Madness

Kia ora! This chapter's a bit short... but I'm sure no one minds cos... no one's reading this. Which is weirdly freeing. I feel like I could suddenly turn this into blatant, bizarre porn and NO ONE WOULD KNOW BUT ME. It's like a SECRET.

There's a guest character in this chapter that I've borrowed from my favorite author ever, Caitlin Kiernan.

Yeah, I get it,

You're an outcast.

Always under attack.

Always coming in last,

Bringing up the past.

No one owes you anything.

I think you need a shotgun blast,

A kick in the ass,

So paranoid

Watch your back!

Oh my, here we go

Another loose cannon gone bi-polar

Slipped down, couldn't get much lower.

Quicksand's got no sense of humor-

I'm still laughing like hell.

You think that by cryin to me,

Looking so sorry that I'm gonna believe.

You've been infected by a social disease.

Well, then take your medicine.

I created the sound of madness.

Wrote the book on pain.

Somehow I'm still here

To explain,

That the darkest hour never comes in the night.

You can sleep with a gun.

When you gonna wake up and fight for yourself?

I'm so sick of this tombstone mentality,

If there's an afterlife,

Then it'll set you free.

But I'm not gonna part the seas

You're a self-fulfilling prophecy.

~Sound of Madness, Shinedown

~,~

When the guards arrive at the cell about ten minutes later to take Andrew back, they find him seated against the wall, a murderous look in his eyes and Noyce asleep against his shoulder. His glare makes the two watchmen hover in the threshold a moment, bickering about who should go in and get him. When they finally do remove Laeddis (not without considerable reluctance on the sides of both parties) the schizophrenic man wakes and snarls at them, scooting further away into the corner. The wardens aim a few kicks at him and lead their charge away. Andrew casts a glance over his shoulder at the captive shadows, telling himself that it's sure as hell not gonna be a last look, before turning to face the long hall. He's got a little speech prepared for the good doctor.

Minutes later, Andrew Laeddis is in Doctor Cawley's office, ranting at the older man behind closed doors.

"You can't just fuckin' scrape the guy's brain out of his skull just cuz he don't wanna talk to you!"

"Andrew, George is a danger to himself and to others; he's attacked a dozen different orderlies and even more patients-"

"What about the shit you pulled with me? Can't you do some kinda freaky psycho mind trick and make him not nuts anymore?" The agitated man runs a hand through his hair, trying to keep his anger in check.

Cawley steeples his fingers in front of his face thoughtfully. "I'm afraid that wouldn't work in this case as it did for you. George is schizophrenic; you were merely suffering from a delusional breakdown brought on by extreme post-traumatic stress. They're... they're two entirely different conditions."

Andrew slams his palm against the wall despite himself, guilt and helpless rage burning at him. "Come on, doc. There's gotta be somethin'. You musta made some kinda progress with him while he's been here, right? Something you could use?"

The psychiatrist shakes his head sadly, but there's a considering tilt to his head. "Unfortunately, George is one of the most resilient people I've met when it comes to blocking others out. I've tried hypnotherapy, but he always finds a way to stonewall me. He never even speak to the other patients during his recreational time, when he was allowed it." He sighs and looks up at Laeddis. "In all honesty, you are the first person I've ever seen him willingly converse and engage with."

"But I beat the shit out of him," Andrew blurts, surprised.

Cawley nods, still looking calculating. "Yes. And what stunned me most of all was the fact that he continues to hold you in high regard. I believe it may be rooted in your delusion- the thought that you are responsible for his condition and his being here, your continuous insistence that you would 'rescue' him, and even your sudden violence toward him when you ceased to see yourself as 'Andrew'- they all galvanized your feelings of guilt and defensiveness toward him, and his view of you in the role of a savior."

"So let me fucking talk to him, then! Let me act as a- whatever you call it- a proxy shrink or some shit. You said it yourself, I'm the only one he opens up to. Let me at least try it before you cut the man's goddamn brains out!"

The doctor gazes at him sternly. "Andrew, you may be recovering but you are still my patient. It is not common practice for a patient to-"

"Screw common practice, I thought you were all cutting edge and shit!" He brings his hands to rest on the psychiatrist's desk, knuckles facing out, intensity and determination sharpening his stare. "You gotta let me try, doc. You let me try, and I swear to you- I give you my word, I'll work at gettin' better. I'll stop tryin' to off myself; I'll do my damn therapy."

Doctor Cawley continues to hold his gaze, finally sighing and shaking his head slightly, an almost amused look in his eye. "You're still very much a Marshall, Andrew. Bargaining with me, trying to make a deal."

"You think it's a good idea," Laeddis says, leaning in, triumph in his eyes. "You _know_ it's a good idea; you _know_ it'll work. You gotta let me."

"Truthfully? Yes, I think it would be good for both of you. I think that helping to bring him back to reality would help you to reclaim your former self and leave your self-destructive emotions behind. But it could take years, Andrew, and I was hoping to have you rehabilitated enough for society within the year."

"But I thought he trusted me."

"Oh no," Cawley smiles ruefully. "Oh no, no, he doesn't _trust_ anyone. I believe he'll open up to you, yes, but I think genuine trust would take far longer. And the problem is that if he does come to trust you, the bond he'll form would be too deep. If he truly connects with you, your eventual departure could send him even deeper into his mania than he is now."

"It's worth a shot, right?" The former Marshall watches his shrink consider the proposition once more and slowly nod.

"...Yes. I suppose it is."

~;;~

The sun doesn't rise so much as saunter vaguely upwards the next morning, weak light filtering through the fog that has crept in from the ocean. As usual, Cawley arrives, bearing a thick manilla folder under one arm, to wake him and to ask him the routine questions:

"What is your name?"

"Andrew Laeddis."

"Where are you?"

"Ashecliffe."

"Ashecliffe...?"

He sighs, rubbing a hand blearily over his face. "Ashecliffe Hospital for the Criminally Insane."

"And why are-"

"I murdered my wife." Strange, how much easier it is already. He can feel her leaving him, slowly, like poison from a wound. "Because she killed our children."

"Very good." The doctor helps him up and turns to wave the orderly bearing a breakfast tray into the room. "I thought perhaps while you ate I could go over George's file, give you a base to build on if you're really intent on doing this."

"Uh," Andrew looks the tray over quickly- eggs, toast, orange juice, butterscotch pudding in a little tin- and is immensely relieved to find no little cup of candy-bright pills. To be on the safe side, though, he takes only the pre-sealed pudding. "Sure. Go ahead."

Cawley nods, flipping open the folder. The first item on the stack of papers is a photo, which the psychiatrist pulls from its clip and hands over. "That was taken the day he was brought here."

The murderer examines the photo. He expected- he's not sure, certainly not a vivacious, smiling young man, but at the very least a slightly more healthy-looking and _somewhat_ younger man. True, the face is lacking its current disfiguring bruises and scars, but the person in the image before him resembles nothing so much as one of the Auschwitz victims of his war days: sunken eyes, cheeks like graves dug into pale earth, that haunted, hunted look that bites right into the soul. A walking corpse. The only other difference is a full head of rust-brown hair, the ever-present stubble standing out on his razor-sharp jaw.

"He weighed eighty three pounds when he arrived here," Cawley says, voice distant over Andrew's shoulder.

"For fu- why?"

"He'd been starving himself. It's one of his compulsions; he occasionally falls back into the habit and we have to put him on an IV, but he has gained weight since he's been here." The doctor sighs. "It's one of the few signs of progress he's made, of which I am proud."

"What'd he do, exactly?" Laeddis has been building up to ask this, worried, knowing it's gonna be bad.

"Well, it appears that one day- unprovoked, as far as we can tell- he left his apartment in New York, and drove over a thousand miles without stopping for food or rest back to his childhood home in Big Falls, Wisconsin. When he got there he-" Cawley withdraws another few photos, passes them over. Crime scene photos. Black and white slashes, people reduced to broken, crumpled shapes. "-beat his father to death with a tire iron, decapitated his mother with a shovel, then proceeded to crawl into his former bed and sleep for three days before the police, alerted by the neighbor's complaints about the smell, arrived and found him."

"Christ." Andrew runs a hand through his hair.

The psychiatrist nods again. "He spent three months in prison, awaiting trial, before the judge made the decision to send him to us. During that time he assaulted almost everyone who had contact with him, sending four guards and sixteen prisoners to the hospital. Although," he clears his throat. "It seems that he never started any altercations on his own. As always, he kept to himself until someone else approached him."

"Jeez," Laeddis scrapes the last of the pudding out and sets his spoon down. "I... I dunno, I never really got that violent a vibe from him." He sniffs the orange juice, puts it back.

"He's never been violent with you- that's not poisoned, you know."

"What about when I attacked him?" He picks up the toast and takes a hesitant bite. "I mean, he had to defend himself, right?" _But he must not have_, a voice in his head says. He _was covered in bruises, true, but not me_. "How did we... meet, exactly? I mean, in here."

Cawley smiles, head tilted in amused contemplation. "Your first day here you were next to him in the mess hall... He gave you his pudding cup."

Andrew snorts at the imagery. "So before I came... he didn't have anybody else he talked to? No one I could speak with to get a little more background?"

"No. Well, at least- there was a girl, Niki Ky, Vietnamese, another schizophrenic. She was brought to us by her lover, Daria Parker, after she tried several times to kill herself. Claimed there was a dragon inside her, infecting her, and that she had to drive it out. They arrived on the same week, and when she was attacked by one of the other, more violent patients here, George stepped in- I say 'stepped in', but it was more like 'charged in'. He broke the man's jaw and dislocated his arm. After that, he and Niki became... not friendly, per say, but they were more at ease around one another than with anyone else. Not that they spent much time together; we don't allow very much socializing between the sexes, and they never conversed that I saw. Niki spoke very little English."

"So they were...?"

"Oh no," Cawley says immediately. "No, of course not. I believe his feelings toward her were more of brotherly affection. There was never anything more than that."

"What happened?"

The doctor's face falls, remembering. "Well, as happens so tragically often in cases where a patient is really and truly bound to take their own life, Niki eventually succeeded. She threw herself off the cliffs."

"This place is just a barrel of laughs," Laeddis mutters, setting down the toast and standing. "So when do I start?"

"As soon as you feel willing," the older man replies. "Remember, Andrew... you're not required to do this by any means. If you change your mind-"

"I'm not gonna change my mind." Andrew slips his shoes on. "I told him I'd help him. I keep my promises, doc."


	3. Voice In My Head

HEY I HOPE YOU GUYS LIKE REALLY TINY UPDATES CUZ THAT'S WHAT THIS IS.

...

_There's a boy who sits by me_

_Who other people don't seem to see_

_But I listen to him carefully_

_He says you don't give a damn about me_

_And I can't hear you_

_Over the voice in my head_

_Yeah yeah_

_The voice in my head_

_I hear that_

_Voice in my head_

_Nobody loves me like my invisible friend_

_Medication won't cure me_

_Keep your doctors away from me_

_Don't you see_

_You can't compete_

_With another man you can't even see_

~Voice In My Head by the Love Me Nots

Noyce is in pretty much the same position he was in when Andrew left him last night, sitting on the thin pile of blankets that he calls a bed, studiously ignoring the tray of food in front of him. No pudding or juice, Andrew notices, most likely because the guards consider the spoon and cup to be weapons. He resists the urge to roll his eyes just as Noyce shifts and turns toward him.

"Aw, now this just isn't fair," he croaks when he looks up to see Laeddis standing outside his door, hands in pockets.

"What's that?" Andrew glances over at the guard, on watch nearby with keys and a nightstick, ready to use one or the other depending on how this goes.

"You," George rasps, "Being here when you're not really here. Fuckin' with my head... S'like... my mind's last-ditch effort to convince myself that I ain't nuts. That's what you are." His eyes are slitted suspiciously.

"No, George." The ex-Marshal shakes his head, trying to look as non-hallucinatory as possible. "I'm real. It's me- Laeddis."

"I _know_ who the fuck you are; I'm crazy, not blind," Noyce snaps, standing- with some difficulty, thanks to the straitjacket, the material gone stiff with blood. "I recognize you; that don't make you real. You're prob'ly just poppin' up to say goodbye while I still got a whole brain to hallucinate with. Or you're the warden comin' to take me to the Lighthouse."

"I'm not the warden and I'm not a hallucination!" Andrew is torn between sympathy and irritation. He rubs his brow, changing tactics, and wraps his hand around one of the cold metal bars. "I'm here to help you, George."

"Liar," the schizophrenic man spits venomously as he takes a few staggering steps closer. "That's what you said before; that's what you always say, over and over in my head-"

Laeddis' arm shoots through the gap in the bars, grabs hold of the tattered front of the jacket and yanks, hauling Noyce closer so suddenly that the smaller man is knocked off-balance, unable to catch himself. He falls forward against the bars, supported only by the fist curled into his chest. Andrew leans in, close enough to feel the other patient's breath against his.

"Do I feel like a damn hallucination?"

Noyce shakes his head, slowly, breathing shakily. "I du- I don't know. I don't know, you could be- this could all be-"

"Take my word for it, okay?" The taller man insists, feeling exasperated and inept. "I'm real, and I'm tryin' to help you, but you gotta let me. You're not going to the Lighthouse."

George squints like he's trying to focus. "You said that. Before. When you were- when they were doin' the big game. That thing that fixed you. You crazy again, Laeddis?"

"I mean it," he replies, thankful that at least Noyce has started to use his real name. "You're not going. I promise you."

"Yeah." The bound man sounds tired, the fight and madness gone from his voice as he says, "You're a good guy, Laeddis. You really are."

Andrew's not sure if he should take that as a compliment. He's about to say... something, he's not sure what yet, but the guard's hand lands on his shoulder. He looks up, stepping away from the bars and releasing Noyce, who staggers back and regains his balance.

"I'll- I'll be back," Andrew says to him. "Tomorrow."

George doesn't answer, but watches, seemingly in deep thought, as Laeddis is led away.

"So," Cawley offers Laeddis a china glass, steam curling over the edges, and takes a seat at his desk. "How did your first 'session' go?"

Andrew lets out an exasperated noise somewhere between a groan and a chuckle. "Not... great." He peers into the dark liquid, decides _what the hell_, and takes a sip, only to spit it out. "Phlaah! What the hell is that shit?"

The doctor looks mildly affronted by the spray across his desk. "It's Turkish coffee. You're not supposed to drink the sediment at the bottom." He blots at the stain with a napkin. "So tell me, what went wrong?"

"Well, uh, for starters, he thought I was a hallucination." The younger man huffs and runs a hand through his hair, sitting across from the shrink. "And, well, I dunno, he just seems kind of- hesitant. To talk to me, I mean."

"That's not very surprising."

"Yeah, I know." He glances down at the cup, sets it on the desk, and adds, "I don't think that straitjacket you guys've got him in is helping any, either."

"Straitjacket?" Cawley's eyebrows arch in confusion. "I don't advocate the use of straitjackets, least of all on a self-destructive merinthophobe like Noyce."

"I dunno what that means, but he's definitely in a jacket and he definitely doesn't like it." Laeddis leans back in the chair, the old leather creaking in protest.

"Merinthophobia is the fear of being bound or tied up," the doctor explains. "George has, as we have discovered, a great aversion to any close confinement; he always manages to injure himself somehow whenever we attempt to restrain him."

"Yeah, well, he's been chewin' through the sleeves and most of the skin on his arms," Andrew says, recalling the strings of raw meat caught in the schizophrenic's teeth. "I don't think your guards got the memo about not restraining him."

Cawley sighs slowly, shaking his head. "Unfortunately, I am unable to keep constant tabs on every patient. Sometimes the wardens... take matters into their own hands. McPherson, in particular, has a habit of using his own methods of 'treatment' on some of my patients."

"His arms are fucking _shredded_, doc," the ex-marshal snaps. "If you let him keep at it, he'll bite through an artery and bleed out while the damn guards watch."

The psychologist nods, seeming to sympathize. "I'll pay a visit to his room this evening, have a word with the wardens and have his arms looked at."

Laeddis considers the assurance, decides it sounds like a starting point at least. "And I can talk to him tomorrow?"

"Of course. I've already informed the orderlies that you are to be permitted access to Mister Noyce, and you have free time privileges, which allow you to walk about the grounds during the day. You are free to visit him during that time."

Andrew nods. It's a start.


End file.
